The Dog Loving Therapist Blog

The other day, I had one of those days. You know the kind. Nothing terrible had happened, and it wasn't anything major. It was simply one of those days where you've answered too many emails, made too many decisions, and carried too many responsibilities. By the time I finally sat down, I felt tired in that way that's hard to explain. Not physically exhausted, necessarily—just full. Heavy.

Before I could even figure out what I needed, my dog Aemon wandered over, climbed up beside me, and leaned against me. Then he let out one of those deep, dramatic sighs that dog owners know so well.

That was it. He didn't ask what was wrong. He didn't offer a solution. He didn't remind me to practice gratitude or suggest a better way to manage my schedule. He simply stayed close.

Once again, it got me thinking about how often we humans struggle with this.

When someone we care about is hurting, stressed, overwhelmed, or anxious, our instinct is usually to help. We want to make things better. We offer advice, brainstorm solutions, suggest resources, or try to help them see things differently. Our intentions are good. They're caring and genuine.

But sometimes what someone needs most isn't a solution.

It's connection.

The people I work with know this feeling well. They tend to be the ones others depend on—therapists, teachers, healthcare workers, first responders, parents, caregivers, and high achievers. They're the people who show up, step up, and carry a lot. They're used to being the helpers, the problem-solvers, and the reliable ones. Because of that, they often receive support in the form of advice.

Maybe you need stronger boundaries.

Maybe you should take some time off.

Have you tried meditation?

You need to stop putting so much pressure on yourself.

While these suggestions aren't necessarily wrong, they can sometimes land as just one more thing to do. One more thing to figure out. One more responsibility added to an already overflowing plate.

What I often notice in therapy is that many people have learned to do this to themselves. They come in carrying stress, burnout, grief, anxiety, or the weight of a difficult life transition, and almost immediately they start trying to solve their feelings.

I know I shouldn't feel this way.

I just need to get over it.

I need to stop being so sensitive.

I should be handling this better. Other people have it so much worse.

It's as though the feeling itself has become a problem that needs fixing. But emotions don't always respond to solutions. They often need acknowledgment before they need action. Sometimes they need space before they need strategy.

Going back to Aemon, dogs seem to understand this instinctively. When we're excited, they join us. When we're playful, they engage. And when we're struggling, many dogs simply stay close. They don't rush in with a plan. They don't try to convince us that everything is okay. They don't expect us to feel differently than we do.

They offer connection before solutions.

I sometimes wonder if that's part of what makes relationships with dogs feel so comforting. It's not that they solve our problems. It's that they remind us we don't have to carry them alone. For people who spend much of their lives taking care of others, that's a powerful reminder. We don't always need to immediately fix what's happening. We don't always need a plan. Sometimes the most helpful thing we can do is slow down long enough to acknowledge what we're feeling and allow ourselves to be supported.

What does that look like?

Maybe it's a conversation with someone you trust. Maybe it's a walk outside. Maybe it's simply giving yourself permission to stop pushing for a moment. Or maybe it's a dog leaning against you, reminding you that presence can be its own kind of medicine.

Of course, with Aemon, he could also be reminding me that it's that time again. You guessed it. Walk time!

If you've ever lived with a rescue dog, you'll know this. You can't rush trust. You can't explain to them that they're safe. You can't convince them with logic. You certainly can't demand that they "just get over it."

You simply show up. Calmly, consistently. patiently. And eventually, they’ll begin to believe you.

This topic feels especially fitting as I write this week.

Over the past few months, Aemon has been teaching me this lesson all over again. Since coming to me as a rescue, we've been building his sense of safety together. Some days he's his goofy, adventurous self. Other days, something startles him, and I can almost see his nervous system saying, "Not yet. I’m not ready." His confidence just needs safety before it can emerge.

And, as it turns out, we're not all that different. 

Many of the people I work with carry a lot. They're the ones everyone else depends on. They're the people who quietly keep everything running, often while wondering why they're the ones who feel like they're falling apart. They're used to pushing through. If they're anxious, they work harder. If they're overwhelmed, they become more productive. If they're exhausted, they tell themselves they just need to make it through this week. Or sometimes it's even just the day.

Somewhere along the way, many of us learned that growth comes from pressure. That if we just try harder, push harder or become more disciplined, eventually we'll feel better.

But that's not how humans work.

Our nervous systems don't respond well to shame, pressure, or being told to "just push through." We respond to safety. When your brain believes you're under threat—whether that's because of past childhood experiences, trauma, chronic stress, burnout or simply carrying too much for too long—it's focused on survival, not growth.It's hard to be curious when  you're just trying to get through the day. It's hard to make meaningful changes when your body believes it has to stay on high alert. It's hard to heal when every part of you is bracing for what's coming next.

The funny thing is, most of us approach ourselves the exact opposite way of what we need. We think if we're struggling, we should push harder. Be tougher. Be more disciplined. Get over it. We treat ourselves in ways we'd never dream of treating someone we love.

But growth doesn't happen when we're white-knuckling our way through life. It happens when we have enough steadiness to let our shoulders come down. Enough safety to be honest with ourselves. Enough support to try something different.

That doesn't mean growth is always comfortable though. It isn't. It means having hard conversations. Setting boundaries. Feeling emotions you've spent years avoiding. But there's a big difference between stepping outside your comfort zone and living in survival mode. One helps us grow. The other just keeps us exhausted.

Now back to Aemon again.....…..

Watching him during these past few months has reminded me that confidence and safety cannot be forced. I've never seen him become braver when I pushed him into something he wasn't ready for. He becomes braver because he knows I am beside him while he figures it out.

Turns out, we humans aren't so different.

Maybe growth isn't about asking more of yourself. Maybe it's about creating enough safety that the version of you who's been in survival mode can finally take a deep breath. And I’d like to think that's where the healing begins.

Now, if Aemon has anything to say about it, the next step after all this growth is probably a long walk, a good nap, and at least one treat. I think he makes a pretty convincing case, don’t you.

One of the things I love most about walking with Aemon is that he reminds me to pay attention. Not because he's trying to teach me anything. It's simply that when I'm with him, I notice things I might otherwise miss. The way he stops to investigate a scent I would have walked right past. The way he watches birds with complete fascination. The way he can be completely absorbed in the moment we're in.

As a therapist, and maybe just as a human, I find myself noticing something else too. The invisible weight people carry (and that most definitely includes me). Most of us are carrying far more than anyone can see. We carry the conversation that didn't sit quite right. The worry about someone we love. The decision we haven't made yet. The pressure to keep everything moving. The expectation that we'll be the reliable one, the calm one, the strong one. We carry responsibilities, grief, uncertainty, mental lists and sometimes versions of ourselves we've long outgrown. 

And what's remarkable is that after a while, we stop noticing the weight. It becomes so familiar that we mistake it for who we are.

The people I work with are often surprised when they finally say out loud everything they're holding. Not because it's new, but because no one has asked them to slow down long enough to notice it. And sometimes, neither have they.

Watching Aemon, I'm struck by how different his experience of the world is. He responds to what's happening in front of him. He isn't rehearsing tomorrow's walk while we're still on today's. He isn't wondering if he sniffed the wrong tree or replaying yesterday's other dog encounter.

He meets this moment.

I'm certainly not suggesting we should be more like dogs. We have wonderfully complex minds, rich memories, and imaginations that help us solve problems and care deeply for others. But I am curious  what happens when we carry so much for so long that we no longer recognize the weight.

Maybe that's where change begins.

Not by immediately putting anything down.

Not by trying harder.

But by gently asking ourselves, What am I carrying today?

Because once we can see the weight, we have choices.

As I finish writing this, Aemon has wandered over and is staring at me in that familiar way that means only one thing— yes, it's time for our walk. I assure you, he isn't thinking about tomorrow or replaying yesterday. He's simply reminding me there's a world outside waiting to be noticed.

And maybe that's where I'll begin too.

Next week, I want to explore another question that's been sitting with me- What if not all of what we're carrying is actually ours? Til then.

Last week I wrote about something many of us rarely stop to question: What if not all the weight we're carrying is actually ours?

It's a question that can linger long after you've finished reading. It lingers because, somewhere inside, many of us already know the answer. We carry expectations that don't belong to us. Responsibility that was never ours to hold. Other people's emotions. Other people's disappointments. We carry old stories about who we need to be to be worthy of love, belonging, or approval.

But today I'd like to ask a different question: What happens when we finally put something down?

Most people imagine that putting something down will feel like relief. Sometimes it does. But often, the first thing that arrives isn't relief at all. It's discomfort.  It's guilt. Or uncertainty. Or the uncomfortable feeling that you've become someone you're not quite sure you recognize.

Letting go isn't simple. It's an act of courage. Sometimes the weight we've carried for years has become part of our identity. We don't just put down the burden—we grieve the version of ourselves who believed we had to carry it.

If you've spent years being the strong one, the reliable one or the one who always copes, putting down some of that weight can feel strangely unfamiliar. You might find yourself wondering: If I'm not carrying everyone else, who am I?

That isn't failure. It's space. And space often feels uncomfortable before it feels ok. Even peaceful.

Aemon reminds me of this all the time. When we're out walking, he'll sometimes carry a stick with absolute determination. You'd think it was the most important stick in the world. Until suddenly... it isn't. Without ceremony, he drops it. Not because he failed to carry it. Not because I told him to. 

Simply because there's something else worth noticing. A new scent. A rabbit trail. The breeze.

A patch of sunshine. He doesn't stand over the stick wondering if he should pick it back up just to prove he could still carry it. He simply keeps walking.

But us humans are a little different. We put something down, take three steps forward, and then spend the next hour wondering whether we should go back for it. Maybe someone else expected us to keep carrying it. Maybe guilt whispers that we're letting people down. Maybe carrying it became part of who we believed we were.

One of the quiet truths I've learned, both personally and professionally, is this: Putting something down doesn't erase your love. It doesn't erase your compassion. It doesn't mean you stopped caring.

Sometimes it simply means you've decided to stop carrying what was slowly breaking your back.

That creates room. Room to breathe. Room to notice what's actually yours. Room for joy. For rest. For curiosity. For connection. And maybe, ever so gradually, room to rediscover yourself.

I don't think healing is about becoming someone new. It's about having enough space to remember who you were before you became responsible for everything. Maybe that's what putting something down really gives us. Not emptiness atall but the chance to carry what truly matters. 

If Aemon had any advice, I suspect it would go something like this:

"Not every stick needs to be carried. Sometimes the strongest thing we can do is notice which ones were never ours in the first place."